


While I hold two cups

by craple



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol is the best medicine for broken hearts, Celebrities References, Derek Hale being his emotionally constipated-self isn't helping (much), Lydia is unimpressed of the world at large, M/M, Pre-Slash, Underage Drinking, the hot bartender just wants a threesome with stydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Have you <i>seen</i> Enrique Iglesias? He's like, the absolute hottest. What with the spike black hair, and the stubble, and the abs –  <i>oh god, his abs</i>." Lydia's face is sassy and unimpressed, when she asks, "Are we still talking about the same person here?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	While I hold two cups

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear, oh dear. Here I am, sitting in front of my computer laptop, drunk as fuck because - hey, I failed _two fucking classes_. So. Anyway. Someone called me an awesome drunk, so being an awesome drunk I am. Enjoy.

He's getting drunk in a shady yet classy bar on the town's outskirts, fifth glass still counting, with the most amazing woman he's ever met on earth but without any romantic feeling whatsoever – except the feeling between his thighs – because this is his life now.

If Stiles had known how easy it is to lure Lydia Martin out of the comfort of her house by _challenging_ her, Stiles would have done so a long time ago.

Maybe then, she'd ended up with him and not Jackson, Scott would've never gotten himself bitten in the first place, and they'd probably go on a date instead of nursing her broken heart with a glass of vodka.

"I still don't understand the many fish in the sea quotes," Stiles says, swallows the scotch down with effort. "I mean, you're _Lydia Martin_ , for Christ's sake. The world will be dominated within weeks of your sweet-seventeen as a gift from the other Lydias."

Lydia acknowledges this fact with a dismissive wave that either means she doesn't care, or that she has thought this through and is currently in the process of cloning herself in an abandoned factory somewhere. Stiles can't be sure. He's also a bit freaked out now the information is being processed thoroughly in his brain.

The apparently hot bartender who keeps giving them _the eye_ – a look that means he's not sure whether the both of them are up for a little threesome tonight or whatnot (he gets a lot of that look, these days, considering) – slides another glass of whiskey across the counter. Stiles downs the content with ease. It is cold iced, not lukewarm like the last, so. Ignoring the dirty look Lydia throws him is probably for the best.

Unable to hold his tongue, or his urge to break silences in the first place, Stiles blurts out, "You should marry Sammy Adams."

She looks so thrown and off guard, he bites the inside of his cheeks with vigour to keep the laugh at bay. But something must have flickered on his face, since the mighty Princess Lydia looks positively murderous by the second.

"What? Sammy Adams is all sorts of awesome. He's got a good voice, for one. And the blonde hair matches your perfect-boyfriend-type, right?" he slurrs through the thick haze of drunkenness, and holds his hands up defensively when the intensity of Lydia's terrifying glare doesn't subside.

Another shot of whiskey, two shots of vodka later, Lydia states, "It doesn't have to be blonde."

Stiles scoffs, because he is drunk as fuck, and drunk-Stiles is hopeful as a five year old who wishes to see Santa going down the chimney.

Right now, he is hopeful that the state of Lydia's body and mind are incoherent enough to not remember this moment, _ever_. "Yeah, right, I'm pretty sure I wasn't the one who screamed like a girl when they did a close-up on Anakin's face."

"You did cry when Hayden got shot in Takers," Lydia points out, and well. Not the same. Stiles doesn’t see how _that_ is relevant, at all.

The next shot the hot bartender slides over to Lydia’s side has a cherry on top, so Stiles snatches it away in lieu of verbal revenge. He also may or may not make a show of fellating the fruit as obscene as he possibly could without looking stupid, just because.

He can feel the hot bartender’s eyes on him, burning holes through his head. Stiles smirks at Lydia’s approving hum.

If it’s the bartender’s lucky day, or if Lydia is feeling particularly slutty after tonight, he might get that threesome he desperately wants – and Stiles _knows_ he’s desperate. The needy _whimper_ he lets out is loud enough to be heard outside the fucking bar.

“I’m going to marry Enrique Iglesias.” Stiles decides. One of Lydia’s perfect eyebrows rises skeptically.

“Oh, come on! Have you _seen_ Enrique Iglesias? He's like, the absolute hottest. What with the spiky black hair, and the stubble, and the abs – _oh god, his abs_." Lydia's face is sassy and unimpressed, when she asks, "Are we still talking about the same person here?"

“Don’t forget the leather jacket,” he continues dreamily.

Lydia’s pretty big eyes narrow at him in disgust. “Yep, _totally_ not talking about the same guy anymore.”

She tips the rim of her glass near her lips, red and glossy and perfect, while her gorgeous emerald green eyes watch him cautiously across the stool.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Stiles intones, then pours another shot.

There are at least four empty bottles and two half-full ones on the table surface. Eleven glasses or so, spread around their side of the counter, which the hot bartender is quick to fetch before some sort of bizarre disaster happens – like broken glasses no one’s willing to pay for – which in the end will result in him not getting laid. Stiles pities the guy whole-heartedly.

Well. If Lydia isn’t feeling tipsy, more aroused or is going to be inclined to do something stupid – he might get the chance. Stiles is pretty sure he has at least six condoms in his back pocket.

Not that he was wishing to get laid or anything. He’s gotten plenty, although he’s had none this week. It’s just awkward to scream a certain Tall, Dark, and Broody’s name when he climaxes with, _not him_.

He’s thinking about licking abs – _Tall, Dark, and Broody’s_ abs, because yes, his abs are the most delicious-lickable-looking abs Stiles has ever seen before, aside that of Jason Todd, except he’s two dimensional and so forth – when Lydia clicks his tongue in disgust.

“You’re thinking about licking Derek’s abs aren’t you,” and he is both offended and slightly terrified that she might have acquired the power of mind-reading while he’s not around, studying in New York.

“No, I can’t read your mind. You just have that look on your face when you’re thinking about Derek.”

Stiles makes a face. “I have not,” he says, petulantly. Lydia scoffs at him, cocks her head to the side, then practically _brightens_ like the world is already on the palm of her smooth dainty hands.

“ _Derek_!” she greets in delight. Stiles _does not_ make a double-take or reach around to shove the condoms deeper in his pocket, just. _No_.

When he turns, red-faced, Derek is _not there_.

Presently, Lydia is having the time of her life, laughing her arse off the stool. Stiles’ neck is crawling with heat, the tips of his ears red as the button-down shirt he wears.

“Enrique Iglesias, isn’t it?” she quips between laughter.

Stiles groans and smashes his face on the counter, flushing. “Shut up.”

Lydia just laughs some more.


End file.
